52. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
For as long as you'll have me. The words settle somewhere deep inside my chest.
My brain immediately begins doing what it always does. Evaluating. Interpreting.
She doesn't mean forever. She's talking about now. About today. About while she's healing.
Anything beyond that would be an assumption, and assumptions have an objectively terrible success rate.
Still... Some quiet, reckless part of me whispers something I don't particularly appreciate.
Just...Keep her. Forever.
The thought lands with enough force that I physically flinch.
No. Absolutely not. That would be an alarming thing to say out loud.
Statistically, it would also be an excellent way to frighten the woman currently standing in front of me. She'd known me for around a month. People generally preferred significantly longer timelines before being informed someone hoped they'd stay forever.
I decide, quite reasonably, to keep that particular thought to myself.
Instead, I slide one hand gently to the back of her neck. My thumb brushes her cheek.
"You make it very difficult to think," I murmur.
The corner of her mouth lifts. "I've noticed."
"I don't believe you understand the extent of the problem."
"I probably don't."
"No." I smile despite myself. "Probably not."
She looks at me with that same quiet certainty she'd carried since walking into my room in the middle of the night. Like choosing me had never been complicated. Like staying wasn't something she was forcing herself to do. I don't give myself another chance to overthink it.
I close the distance between us and kiss her. Slowly. Deliberately. Like I'm trying to memorize the feeling before I have to walk away.
Her fingers slide into my hair as she rises onto her toes, and every carefully organized thought in my head dissolves beneath the warmth of her.
For the first time in days...I stop thinking altogether.
When I finally pull back, her mouth is soft, her breath hitching against mine.
Her hands stay tangled in my hair, holding me close. I don't move. I can't. My eyes trace the flushed skin of her throat, the way her chest rises and falls beneath the worn fabric of my oversized shirt.
The heavy duffel bag sits on the floor three feet away, fully packed.
My team is expecting me in twenty minutes.
My brain tries to run the numbers—time to vehicle, traffic variables, mission parameters—but the data fails to assemble. The only variable that matters is standing right in front of me, looking at me like she has nowhere else in the world she'd rather be.
"Keaton," she whispers, her thumb tracing my jawline. "You're going to be late."
"I have four minutes," I murmur.
I slide my hands down her spine, my palms flat against her back, pulling her flush against me until there is no air left between us. I need the physical proof that she's here. That she's safe.
"Tell me what you need before I walk out that door," I say, my voice dropping lower, gravelly and deliberate. "Tell me what you want me to leave you with."
She blinks up at me through the dark lenses of my glasses, her eyes darkening. "You."
A sudden, sharp heat pulls tight in my chest.
I reach down and hook my fingers under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly against my waist. A small, surprised gasp escapes her lips, but she wraps her legs around me instantly, anchoring herself to my frame.
Three steps take us to the edge of the bed, and I set her down, crowding into her space until she is completely trapped between my body and the mattress.
I don't press down. I hold my weight on my hands, my chest hovering an inch from hers.
My mind tries to throw up one last warning. A notification about the clock. The team. The mission.
I mute it. The four minutes are gone. Twenty minutes are gone. They can wait for me in the van.
I slide one hand down her side, my thumb hooking into the waistband of the shorts she's wearing under my shirt, pulling them down her legs with single-minded purpose.
She lifts her hips for me automatically, helping me kick them off the edge of the bed until there is nothing left between my hands and her skin.
I frame her face with my hands, my thumbs resting on her cheekbones.
"Look at me, Maeve."
She opens her eyes, dark and entirely open, staring straight into mine through the black frames of my glasses.
"Tell me you want this," I say, my voice steady, demanding every drop of her certainty.
She gasps, her hips arching up off the mattress, pressing her core against the heavy denim of my pants. "I want you, Keaton. All of you. Please."
That explicit consent snaps the last thread of my restraint.
My hands move fast, precise and unyielding, unbuckling my belt and clearing away my pants.
I don't break eye contact for a single second.
I need her to see the exact moment I lose control.
I need her to know that no matter how organized my mind usually is, she is the only thing capable of completely undoing me.
I settle between her thighs, the heat radiating off her skin overwhelming my senses. I press myself against her entrance, wet and slick and perfectly ready for me, and pause just long enough to let her feel the full size and weight of what she's asking for.
"Tell me you're ready for me, Maeve," I murmur, lowering my mouth until my lips are brushing hers.
"I hate that you're leaving," she whispers, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her hips tilting up into mine. "But watching you in all this gear... I'm losing my mind, Keaton. Don't make me wait."
I push forward, slowly, deliberately sinking all the way into her until my hips lock against hers.
A sharp, breathless sound tears out of her throat, her body stretching around me, enveloping me completely.
My brain doesn't just go quiet—it utterly shatters.
Every data point, every mission parameter, every calculation vanishes, replaced entirely by the tight, incredible feeling of her wrapped around me.
I drop my forehead against hers, my breathing ragged as I hold myself still inside her, letting her adjust to the depth.
"You have all of me," I whisper into the dark room, my hands sliding down to lift her hips, setting the slow, deep rhythm that's going to ruin us both. "Every single piece."
****
By the time I climb into the surveillance van, I'm twenty-three minutes late.
Nobody says anything while I drop my bag beside my seat.
Matt pulls away from the curb. Bullet checks the live drone feed.
Wheels watches me for another few seconds before shaking his head. "I never thought I'd see it."
"What?"
"You late."
"I am twenty-three minutes late."
"Exactly." He leans back. "I figured the apocalypse would've started first."
Nobody says anything after that. There isn't really anything left to say. The mission replaces the conversation as naturally as breathing.
Bullet enlarges the drone feed over the warehouse while Matt reviews the approach one final time. Wheels scrolls through the city's traffic cameras, looking for anything out of place before we arrive.
I open my laptop. The mission files fill one monitor. The apartment fills the other.
Four cameras. Front entrance. Hallway. Front door. Elevator. Parking lot. Exactly as I left them.
I tell myself I'm only verifying the system is still functioning. I maximize the mission map again.
Three seconds later...the apartment cameras are back on my screen.
I don't consciously switch them. My hand simply does it.
The elevator doors open. A man carrying dry cleaning steps out before disappearing toward the opposite end of the hallway. Apartment 2D.
No concern.
I minimize the feed. The target's financial records replace it. Thirty-two seconds later...I check the apartment again.
The realization settles quietly somewhere in the back of my mind. I'm distracted. Not enough to jeopardize the mission.
But enough that every few moments, without permission, part of my attention travels sixty-three miles east. Back to a second-floor apartment. Back to one woman. Back home.